Loose Ends
by realfriends13
Summary: Rated M for heavy cursing and ideologically sensitive materials. Short one-shots describing bits and pieces of character lives outside of being clique members, clique leaders, etc. Features more characters than will be shown. Features no OCs.
1. Derby Harrington

A Trophy Father's Trophy Son

"Derby."

"F-Father? Hello...! Um, I was er, uhm, c-calling t-to..."

"Enough of that stuttering and stalling, boy! You've _obviously_ called me for _something_. Hurry up, I'm busy." The gruff voice on the other end of the line barked. Derby gave a small sigh and traced circles onto the dark maple desk underneath his hand.

"My apologies, father."

" _Sir_."

"My apologies, _sir_."

"Much better. Now, what is it?"

Derby looked out the window, wondering why he had called Mr. Harrington in the first place. He frantically racked his brain for an excuse, _anything_ but the truth.

If he told his father that he'd called him simply to hear his voice, he'd be deemed weak. Feeble. A horrible excuse for an heir.

"It was about the party today at home..." He finally mumbled.

"Social gathering. It is a _social_ _gathering_ , boy. I do hope you're not planning on speaking in that _hoodlum_ form, young man."

Automatically, Derby straightened up and cleared his throat ever so slightly, as if Mr. Harrington were standing right in front of him, evaluating him at this very moment.

"Of course, sir. I just... Wanted to know, would you like me to wear my uniform, to show off where I attend school, or would you rather I wore a suit?"

Mr. Harrington's reply came with a mixture of annoyance and disappointment. "A suit, boy, a _suit_! Class comes with _elegance_ , and _subtlety_! Isn't this obvious? Am I really wasting my time with you like this? Carry on with this attitude, and the company goes _straight_ to William, understood?"

Gulping, Derby nodded. "Yes sir," he whispered.

"Good!" Mr. Harrington barked, and with that, he hung up.

Derby flinched, expecting a hand to slap him across the face, and was relieved when it never came.

That was certainly the upside to being at a boarding school. His father was never there when Derby aggravated him. It was only at his work parties-social gatherings-that Derby had to be extra careful as to not irritate Mr. Harrington, as Mr. Harrington would not hesitate to pull Derby into a more secluded room and let out his rage in the form of hits and blows.

He didn't understand why Mr. Harrington disliked him so much. He certainly hadn't done anything anger-worthy in his childhood-after all, Mr. Harrington was _barely_ present when Derby still lived at home. Instead, night after night Derby would, at a young age, sit in his bed wondering where his father was, and when-if-he would return, almost like a personalized Hell.

Not that Mr. Harrington seemed to care.

 _It doesn't matter._ He thought to himself. _Daddy only hits us because he cares about us turning out well._

He looked down at his report cards, which he kept in a neat pile on the side of his desk. Of course, each was marked with A's in each class, even the ones he didn't like, such as shop and gym.

He took the pile, which was held together by a rubber band, and tucked it into his shirt pocket, just in case his father would want to show his work friends. Derby still had the scar from the last time he'd forgotten.

It served as some sort of permanent reminder.

He crept over to his closet and opened it in search of his most formal suit jacket. After choosing one, he placed it on himself carefully, making sure that the sleeves covered his scarred wrist.

 _What a sign of weakness! Cutting?! Are you trying to embarrass me, boy? Or should I say 'girl'?!_ His father had asked when he'd seen the scars, both fresh and old combined. Derby hadn't worn short sleeves ever since _that_ discussion.

He sprayed on a slight touch of Versace cologne, and waited for the limousine his father had sent to pick him up. After about ten minutes, it arrived outside the front gates of the academy, and Derby climbed in, a bit surprised to see his mother. She was powdering her darkened, purple cheek, oversized black sunglasses sitting on her lap.

Derby's mouth made a small 'o' as he realized what'd happened. Mrs. Harrington glanced up at him with a smile and quickly looked back down, smile fading into a frown.

"You will not mention this. Not to your father, not to William, and _certainly_ not to anyone at the social gathering."

He nodded slightly, understanding, and waited to arrive to the mansion in silence.


	2. Lola Lombardi

Make-Up and a Bag

 _"But_ Mommy _..." She sighed, "I don't_ like _make-up. It makes my face feel itchy and hot."_

 _A little girl, no older than six years old (or six-and-a-half as she corrected the mailman each morning), explained to the older woman wearing heels. The woman kneeled in front of her daughter, short red dress stretched, leopard-pattern lined leather jacket slung around her shoulders. Swiftly, she yanked the make-up brush from the little girl's face, scowling._

 _"I don't_ care _. You're wearing your make-up whether you like it or not, you ungrateful little brat," she scolded, thrusting the brush back onto Lola's cheek. "And don't you_ dare _wipe it off like last time. I pay good money for this stuff, and you won't be throwing it away and ruining your clothes while you're at it."_

 _Frowning, Lola accepted her mother's hand and let her chocolate brown eyes wander over to the window. She saw the fellow neighborhood kids, dressed in whatever they could get their hands on, playing in the dirt. How she wished she could join them... But, according to mother, Lola should be content with what she had._

 _That certainly wasn't friends, though. Lola had clothes that her mother deemed to be "sexy" (whatever that meant, Lola didn't know,) and she had a purse. She had dolls, and make-up brushes, and sparkly high-heeled shoes._

 _But not friends._

Mommy says it doesn't matter, _Lola reminded herself._ All a girl needs to enjoy life are make-up and a bag. And I have _both_ of those things.

 _She couldn't convince herself that she didn't want friends, however. She desperately wanted to one day wear her own mismatched outfit, and run out to play in the dirt with the other children._

 _There was one she was particularly interested in, a seven year old boy named Johnny._

 _He was definitely not the boy her mother approved of. He was far too..._ poor _. That was what her mother said. . Unclassy. But whenever Lola saw him, he was smiling. It didn't seem like such a bad thing to be, poor. If Johnny, and the other boy, Peanut, were happy, she could be too, right?_

 _She was distracted from her daydreaming when instructed to stand still for the mascara._

Lola smiled proudly as she looked into the mirror. After a dab of lipstick, she looked perfect. _'A million bucks', mother would say_ , she thought to herself gingerly, and placed the tray of eye shadow down gently. Sure, maybe she _looked_ fabulous, but her mother would not approve of her less than fabulous life.

No, Mrs. Lombardi would just _drop dead_ if she saw _where_ Lola spent her time. _How_ she spent it. And most of all, with _whom_ she spent it.

She never liked the Vincent boy.

And Lola didn't know if it was pure luck that Mrs. Lombardi wasn't around long enough to witness Lola and Johnny date.

Of course, maybe she would approve of what Lola did. After all, she had convinced the fat boy to complete her History project, and her homework for _all_ her other classes. And, she manipulated not the one, but _both_ of the rich boys into buying her expensive things. If Lola remembered correctly, this was near _exactly_ what her mother did.

Johnny didn't _have_ to know that Lola shopped for favors with minor fees. Just a kiss there, a hand hold here, nothing big.

Yet.

She turned when she heard heavy footsteps approaching her room. Johnny leaned against the door frame, staring at the ground.

"You ready to go yet." he mumbled. It wasn't a question, more of a demand. He was angry, and Lola knew it. Hell, she _loved_ it. She thought he was simply adorable when he was frustrated with her, it reminded her that no matter what she did, or who she did it with, Johnny would always stick around.

It was one of the things she loved about him, and believe her-she loved him. Maybe in a bit of a twisted way, but one learns how one is raised. And to Lola, her love was enough for him.

He _was_ still here, wasn't he?

"In a minute, sweetie, why don't you go wipe that frown off your face, hm?" she replied sweetly, striding over and pecking his cheek. Then, with her thumb, she wiped the tan mark off of his face.

"My lipstick! Naughty boy, aren't you Johnny? I'll have to fix that," she winked, and then smirked at his blush. He wandered off, and she strut back to the mirror to fix her lipstick.

She carelessly threw the small container into her purse, and swung it over her shoulder, heading to the door. Mother was always right, in the end, she didn't need anything to be happy except her make-up and her bag.

Johnny and the other boys? Well, they were just icing on the cake.

Just the way Lola liked it.


	3. Gary Smith

No Cake on his Birthday

"Mom? Are you home?"

Gary Smith shut the crumbling door behind him, pulling the shade down over the broken window beside it. Shattered glass surrounded the entire entrance to the townhouse. He gazed at the walls for a moment and found them stained with a nasty, rust-colored substance. Cockroaches scattered away from the sounds of Gary's school loafer clad footsteps.

The house was a mess.

Navigating through the endless clutter of half-empty pizza boxes, crushed beer cans, and stomped-on cigarette butts that his mother and a one night lover had most likely enjoyed on a not-so-recent night, Gary found himself standing in the doorway to his mother's bedroom. She stood like a scarecrow in the center of her queen-sized bed, her back to him as she stared out the dirty window. Sunlight blazed through the clouded glass, blinding Gary momentarily.

Mrs. Smith had thrown all the sheets, pillows, and the comforter on the floor around the bed, leaving the bare mattress underneath her muddy feet. Blades of dying grass clung to her toes and calves, she'd obviously been wandering around the forest in the southern part of New Coventry by herself again. She wore a white dress that had probably been pretty at one point, but was now coated in grass and oil stains.

Gary opened his mouth to speak to her once again, but shut it almost instantly. He rested against the wall, wincing as he heard the crunch of an unfortunate insect he'd no doubt killed on accident. How did his mother end up like this? How did _he_ end up like this? And where the hell was his father? All he knew from his bastard of a grandfather was that Mr. Smith Jr. had taken the money from his trust fund and left a very pregnant Mrs. Smith behind.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

"Is that mein kostbaren kleinen Sohn[1]?!" she cried, hazel eyes widening in crazed delight.

He straightened against the wall when his mother's head suddenly whipped around, her long, greasy, dark brown hair flying around her like a flying saucer. Out of her bony hand flew a piece of glass, undoubtedly from the smashed window Gary had been greeted with, and struck Gary on his right eye. He howled in pain as his hands soared to his eye, straining to stop the sudden and inevitable bleeding. He shuddered as he felt the warm blood flow through his fingers, frantically looking around for something to stop the blood loss.

He snatched one of the bed sheets, clutching it over his eye in attempt to neutralize the wound.

"STOP!" Mrs. Smith screeched, glowering at her son.

"STOP, STOP, STOP!" she jumped on the bed with each word, each rebound bringing her mere centimeters from smashing her head on the ceiling.

Obediently, Gary released the bed sheet and allowed it to fall to the filthy floor. He stood gawking at his mother, whining and screaming as if she were a four year old child, blood dripping down his face and onto his uniform. He already didn't have the money to buy new school supplies this year, how he'd purchase a new uniform he had no idea.

"You've dirtied the sheets!" Mrs. Smith shrieked, getting down onto her knees and digging her untrimmed fingernails into the mattress, "And I only _just_ washed it!"

"Es tut mir leid[2]," Gary whispered, anxious to leave and tend to his eye. He ogled the blood-stained glass that lay just a few feet from him, wondering what on earth had possessed the woman into grabbing it and carrying it around as if it were a safety blanket.

Mrs. Smith smiled, the vacant insanity in her eyes promptly replaced by pure joy and enthusiasm. "My little boy! Mein Jungen[3] Gary! Here! On his sixteenth birthday with his mother! Come son, let us dance!"

She reached her bony hands out to him, fingers wiggling in anticipation. Gary studied his bloodied hands, unsure, but he knew his mother's patience would wear thin soon enough. Sighing, he took her hands and allowed himself to be pulled up onto the mattress with her, where the two began jumping in circles, engulfed in his mother's madness.

"Alles Gute zum Geburtstag[4]!" Mrs. Smith wailed, shutting her eyes and cackling with happiness. "Kerstin und Gary on Gary's birthday!"

Gary shut his eyes, waiting for it to finish. He should have known better than to visit his mother on his birthday.

Suddenly, the woman stopped, eyes filling with childlike surprise. "I don't have a cake for you, mein Jungen…" she mumbled, tears arising. "No cake on his birthday!" she screamed, turning to her left as if there were someone standing there that she was speaking to.

"It's okay," Gary said, trying to calm her, "I don't need a cake."

"Nonsense!" she roared, still facing the invisible being, "I told Harold to get the cake! Where is the cake! Cake!"

She let go of Gary's hands and pointed to a cockroach roaming near one of the corners of the window beside her bed.

"There you are, Harold!" she squawked, jumping on the bed over and over in frustration, "I told you to get the cake! For Gary! On his birthday! Where is it?! WHERE IS IT?! WHEREISITWHEREISITWHEREISITWHEREIS—"

"It's alright, Mutter," Gary interrupted, taking her wrists and yanking her to face him, "I can get the cake. I'll be back in an hour, alright?"

She took in various deep breaths, glaring at Gary, and for a moment he thought she was going to strike him. But then, at the last minute, she beamed at him cheerily.

"Ja! Und then we can eat cake and you can turn sixteen! Go! While I discipline Harold!"

Gary nodded, playing along as he jumped off of the bed and did his best to pace himself as he walked to the front door, trying to keep his desperation to get out a secret. He let out a sigh of relief as he finally exited the unclean townhouse and shut the door behind him.

Pulling off his already ruined sweatervest, he held it against his eye tightly as he made his way back to the school.

He wouldn't be visiting her in a while, he decided.

Translations

[1] - My precious little son

[2] - I'm sorry

[3] - My boy

[4] - Happy birthday


	4. Wade Martin

Pent-Up

Wade Martin took a profound inhalation as he slammed his bedroom door behind him, sending a Good Charlotte poster crashing down onto the floor. Shutting his eyes, he strained to recall the breathing techniques that his therapist had shown him—deep in through nose, gradually out through mouth—but failed to summon them.

He let out a long, pained scream. He hated his dad. He hated his mom. He hated his dad's girlfriend. He hated that stupid _fucking_ fetus inside of her. He hated it. He hated _everything_.

"Get back here, Wade!"

Mr. Martin crashed through the door. Wade was launched forward from the impact of the door slamming against him, sending him flying onto the floor. He whipped around instantaneously, glaring at his father whilst hyperventilating.

"Get the _FUCK_ out!" He bellowed at his father, hands compressing into fists.

"We're not done talking about this!" Mr. Martin barked, scowling down at his son.

" _I'm_ done talking about this!" Wade thundered, breathing heavily and sneering at his father. "I don't want another _fucking_ sibling! I don't want you to get your fuckin' _start-over_ family while I have to deal with my _FUCKED UP_ one!"

Rolling his eyes, Mr. Martin stepped aside, kicking the door shut after him. "You do _not_ have a fucked up family! Why do you always have to _ruin_ things for me?!"

Hopping up, Wade leaned in close to his father, detestation filling his eyes. "Like when I was fuckin' _born_? Or the day you decided to put me in therapy? Or, the day you found out you had to pay for my prescription pills? Any of those the answer?"

Mr. Martin took a deep breath, eyes moving to meet Wade's.

"Why can't you just _man up and QUIT BEING SO IMMATURE_?!" He snarled.

Frowning, Wade wiped the spit from his face, biting his lip so hard it split and began to bleed. "You wanna see me lose it, dad?" he asked steadily. He reached for his worn-out baseball bat, another reminder of one of his failures, this one being when he failed to hit the winning home run in the final little league game of the season. He turned back to his father.

"Well? Answer me, old man."

Wade gripped the bat like they'd taught him to hold it—over his shoulder—and took a deep breath with his eyes shut.

"I SAID YOU WANNA SEE ME LOSE IT, DAD?! I'LL FUCKIN' KILL YOU! I'LL KILL ALL THREE OF YOU! YOU, THAT WHORE, AND THAT FUCKING _BABY_!"

He clutched the bat securely, waving it ever so slightly as he spoke. He watched as his father's face filled with alarm before ducking out of the bedroom and slamming the door.

"Get your purse. Get the keys. We're going."

So the old man was escaping, huh? He thought he could just get away that easy and then leave with that little whore?

No. Not if Wade could help it.

He tore the door open, pushing a muddled and terrified-looking Christy out of the way as he did so. He made his way down the hall—walking no faster than what could only be described as an insane stroll—he just barely caught sight of his father whisking away that stupid fucking wide-eyed bitch with the fucking brunette bob cut.

"Wade, don't!" Christy called from behind him. He whipped around to face her, taking in her streaming mascara and tousled red hair. A dark blue ribbon hung in her hair uselessly.

"Shut up, Christy!" Wade growled, tightening his grip on the bat.

He stormed to the front door, catching a glimpse of the family Stallion's taillights rocketing down the street. Frustrated, Wade pulled his phone out and dialed Tom's number.

"Huh? It's two in the morn—"

"Meet me by the park. Ten minutes."

"Wade? It's two in the mornin' man, I can't just—"

"She's _pregnant_ , dude."

He heard Tom let out a sigh on the other end, but he knew he'd come. He knew.

"I'll be there."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Tom jogged up to the Old Bullworth Vale garden from the comfort of the horror movie he'd been watching in his Bullworth Town apartment. Wade paced back and forth, his bat still in his hand.

"There you are. She's fuckin' pregnant."

Tom placed his hands on his knees, taking in deep breaths. He looked up at Wade, still breathing heavily.

"What do you mean she's pregnant? I thought you said she always complained about not being able to be?"

Wade shrugged, inspecting his bat and then checking the park for any guards. There was nobody, as usual. "She'll probably lose it again. Still. Shit pisses me off."

"So why'd you bring that bat?"

Wade shrugged before entering the park, equipping his bat. He scanned the area momentarily, before settling on a nearby birdbath. Making his way to it, he allowed his bat to come into contact with it, exploding the concrete structure as easily as if it had been made of glass.

Yeah, that worked.

"Dude!" Tom said, shocked as he ran to Wade's side. "That's vandalism! You could get us arrested!"

"Yeah, so?!" Wade demanded. He wasn't gonna let Tom ruin this for him. Breaking that stupid birdbath felt fantastic. He intended to repeat the action until he felt better.

Not like he could find a couple wimps to beat up at this time of night.

Tom sighed, leaning back and examining the street for any signs of cops or car lights. He saw nothing.

"Alright man."

* * *

Countless smashed port-a-potties, birdbaths, garden gnomes, and trash cans later, Wade sat outside the garden with Tom, gasping heavily and fighting back tears.

"I just can't fuckin' stand him, y'know?"

Tom nodded, understanding. Wade had criticized his father ever since Mr. and Mrs. Martin had split when he and Wade were in the seventh grade.

"You can't keep smashing everything every time something happens with them though, man," Tom replied, pushing his chocolate brown hair back from his forehead, "it's unhealthy."

Wade shrugged, spitting out onto the street. "I could go for a beer, man."

Sighing, Tom shook his head. "Yum Yum Market's closed at this time. And I don't feel like going all the way down to New Coventry, anyway."

"Damn," Wade replied, foraging through his pockets for a box of cigarettes but instead coming up with his buzzing cell phone. He flipped it open and held it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"She lost it. I hope you're happy, you useless brat, because she lost it. I want all your stuff out by the morning. Go to your mothers for a month; I don't care, I just want you out of my sight."

Wade pulled the phone away from his ear, staring vacantly at the screen that flashed 'CALL ENDED' in small, white, pixelated letters.

"Who was that?" Tom asked from beside him, but to Wade, Tom might as well have been on the other side of town.

"Nothin' special," Wade responded.


	5. Pete Kowalski

Change of Plans

Pete Kowalski had just graduated fifth grade when he decided that he wanted to enroll in the nearby private school, Bullworth Academy.

His parents had been completely against it, of course. He was their only child, their baby boy, their precious gift from above. It was their duty to keep him out of harm's way, how on earth would they be able to succeed if he was away at _boarding school_?

But their resolution was what motivated Pete to go. He was tired of living a sheltered, benign life. After all, he was the only fifth grader—and most likely the only sixth grader—who still wasn't allowed to go to sleepovers or watch movies that weren't rated G. Sure, on occasion he was allowed to watch PG… as long as one of his parents was watching with him.

Really, who even listened to that, anyway?!

Deep down inside, Pete knew that they'd never go for the idea if they didn't have any slight inclination to believe that it was even a remotely good idea.

So he went to the academic side of things.

And it worked like a charm.

By the end of the summer, Mrs. Kowalski wept on her son's shoulders as they stood in front of the iron gates to Bullworth Academy, despite the fact that their Old Bullworth Vale home was a mere eight minute drive away if there was only light traffic. Pete hoped that no one inside could see this unfolding.

"I'll be okay, mom," he said, patting her back gracelessly as he felt his shirt begin to dampen at the shoulder, "I'll call you guys every da—…" he stopped for a moment considering that promise, and began again.

"I'll call you guys every Wednesday."

"Y-You better…!" Mrs. Kowalski sobbed, straightening and dabbing at her mascara-stained cheeks with a light pink handkerchief.

"Come on, dear," Mr. Kowalski interrupted, placing his hands on his wife's shoulders, "It's time we let Peter go on to school. He'll be home this weekend, and he'll be calling in two days. It's alright, easy does it…"

Pete accepted an embrace from his father, and then watched them pile into their olive green sedan and drive off in the direction of Old Bullworth Vale. He turned to the gates, smiling to himself.

Surely, he'd be living it up at this new school. Cool kid style.

* * *

Oh, how wrong he'd been.

It was November, and Pete loathed Bullworth Academy.

His hopes of getting a girlfriend had been crushed once he'd realized that there were only seven at the school—most of which unsettled him greatly.

He'd had trouble making friends, the boys at the academy were much… rougher than he'd expected. On his first day, he'd barely walked twenty steps into the campus when an enormous, dark-haired boy had seized him by the waist and plunged him into the first trashcan he could find. Pete would later learn this kid was named Russell Northrop, who'd decided that victimizing Pete would be his favorite pastime.

Unfortunately for Pete, Russell also happened to be the largest, most terrifying student at the academy. So, all the other boys had no choice—or maybe they just approved, Pete didn't really know—but to follow suit in Russell's merciless mistreatment of Pete. He deduced that if he hadn't been intimidated by all the girls at the academy, the fact that he was the school's punching bag would've ruined it for him.

In the three months he'd been here, he'd made a total of one 'friend'.

Gary Smith wasn't exactly popular, but he wasn't ruthlessly terrorized, which was a plus in Pete's opinion. He also wasn't exactly very pleasant… or typical… but Pete had decided beggars couldn't be choosers, and right now, he was desperate for any friend he could acquire.

He was sure that Gary considered him a friend too, sort of. He had funny ways of showing friendship; last week, for example, he'd thrown in a couple red shirts to Pete's wash load, turning all his white button downs pink.

Gary had jeered and laughed at Pete when he'd put one of his shirts on, calling him 'gay' and 'femme-boy', but Pete was pretty sure he was just joking around with him.

Currently, Pete sat on the sofa in the boy's dorm, waiting for his parents to pick up the phone.

Things had changed a lot between them since they'd dropped him off that day in early September. Slowly, the visits home every single weekend had diminished to every other weekend, and then stopped altogether. Pete had done his best to keep his promise of calling every Wednesday, but he had given it up after the fourth Wednesday in a row that his parents simply hadn't picked up the phone. He'd even sent several e-mails even that had gone by unanswered.

The only reason he was attempting to contact them now was that he was supposed to be staying home for the Thanksgiving break, and really, he _needed_ to be home for a while. Bullworth was wearing him out, and sure, maybe he had the highest score on Future Street Racer, and maybe he cherished his art class and his art teacher, but those things weren't sufficient to make up for being bullied all the time, even by his only 'friend'.

"Hello?"

Pete was shifted back into reality upon hearing the familiar, yearned for voice of his mother.

"Hey, mom!" He greeted enthusiastically, more keen than he had ever anticipated to sound calling his mother back in September.

"Oh, Peter! How lovely to hear from you. How've you been?" she enquired sweetly, but she sounded distracted. Pete thought he heard the ambience of a party in the background.

He hesitated for a moment, and then decided to save the complete version of his time at Bullworth for when he was seated at the dinner table with her and his father, relishing in Mrs. Kowalski's special apple pie that she baked each year for Thanksgiving.

"It's been… interesting." He said finally. "But anyways, what time are you guys gonna pick me up on Thursday?"

His mother took a bit to respond, and when she did, she was laughing as if she had just finished chatting with someone else.

"Hm? What about Thursday, dear?"

"Y'know…" Pete responded gently, twisting the phone's cord around his index finger, "Thanksgiving?"

"Oh!"

Pete jumped back from his mother's yelp, holding the phone away from him for a second as the ringing in his ear faded just a bit.

"There's been a change of plan, sweetheart; your father booked a ski trip for us for Thanksgiving! Isn't that wonderful? It'll be almost like a second honeymoon."

Pete froze, allowing the information to register in his mind. He'd be… alone…?

"But that's good for you, dear, you can enjoy the holiday with your friend, uh… What did you say their names were, dear?"

"I didn't say their names…" Pete said mechanically, still not quite comprehending the situation at hand. "Wait, so you're just gonna leave me—"

He stopped talking when he heard the line go dead, and looked up to find himself face to face with none other than Gary Smith.

"Come on, Femme-Boy, we've got _things_ to do."

"I was using the phone!" Pete replied, annoyed. This was _just_ the type of crazy, annoying thing Gary would do.

Gary rolled his eyes, swinging the phone cord around like a whip. "Was Femme-Boy talking to his mommy? Yeah, well, now there's no phone, so I guess you'll just have to deal with it."

He tossed the cord aside, and Pete followed it as it clattered to the ground. Gary, meanwhile, walked around the sofa.

"Are you coming? There's a fight at the hole, and I want you to fight the winner."

Pete opened his mouth to protest, but shut it before he spoke. What was the point? Any attempt he made at declining Gary would be futile, and it wasn't like his mom would be concerned as to why the call got cut off, anyway. She was probably delighted to have gotten out of a phone call with Pete so effortlessly.

Sighing, Pete stood and trailed behind Gary out of the common room.

What else did he have to do, anyway?


End file.
